The money had been converted to Australian dollars, but a buck was a buck in any language, and since he now considered himself a permanent resident, even that was convenient. He had stashed the dough in the Combi, and gotten himself a bottle from the bar. Even that had been free; because everyone had been so fucked up, he had been able to just walk in and take it. Plus, he had spotted the Greg Norman fan who had smacked him when he first walked in lying under a table and given him a couple of decent clips in the kisser with a pool cue just to help his hangover along. Back in Mary Rose’s room he had studied the map carefully, drawing several alternative routes onto it in red pen.
And then for the pièce de résistance. He had pulled the old man from off the porch where he was sleeping with some kind of sheepdog—which, fortunately again, was also passed out drunk—and had dragged him to the back of the Combi, hog-tied him, and given him a shot of heavy duty sedative. Enough to keep him out for twenty-four hours. He had repeated the process with the old lady and pulled away into the night with his cargo safely stowed and the cool night air coming through the open window of the Combi, toasting himself with whiskey.
And now, as he drove through the night energized by a scotch and adrenaline cocktail, he saw the red eyes of large animals reflected in the headlamps and large flying things ghosted past overhead and fluttered around the beams. And as the sky began to turn to pearl gray and a pink glow appeared in the east Monsoon pulled up under a stand of eucalyptus, checked his passengers, took a piss against the wheel, stretched out on the front seat, and slept for a couple of hours.
Waking in the gathering heat he breakfasted on whiskey, gave his guests their daily dose, and headed south. He would carry Bjørn Eggen and Mary Rose one more day, and then leave them in the first one-horsefly town that he came to. And speaking of flies, it would be a shame that he wouldn’t be a fly on the wall when all the shit came down. Naturally it would be assumed that these two old farts were in cahoots with him, and they wouldn’t know what planet they were on for a couple a days after he gave them a parting shot apiece. There would be total confusion and the hounds would be on the wrong trail, especially when he called and left an anonymous message giving the exact location of the fugitives, located in exactly the wrong place, miles from where they were and in the opposite direction to where he was headed.
By the time they got that Gordian knot untangled he would be well away, and so well established in Sydney—so utterly protected by his wealth and influence—that no one would be able to touch him—neither the general, nor the wop, nor that Mick if he happened to show up again. Monsoon looked though the dusty windshield at the seemingly endless red track unwinding before him through stands of eucalyptus without limit under a vast and cloudless sky. It had been a tortuous trail for sure, but now the road was straight ahead in every sense of the word. He was home free, with the bacon, and nothing could stop him.
The engine exploded with a deafening bang, and a hissing cloud of steam billowed around the windows. The motor seized and died, and the vehicle skidded to a halt. Monsoon climbed out, coughing, and surveyed the black smoke pouring from the hood. Letting out a stream of vile invective, he gave the side of the car a vicious kick. He heard a loud snap and felt a sudden excruciating pain on the top of his foot. As he hopped up and down, yelping in pain, a bird, like a large kingfisher, began laughing at him from the bough of a eucalyptus tree.
The unusual sounds were getting on the Don’s nerves, but he knew he would have to tolerate them for a while. And anyway they had not left the building for nearly two weeks, so a little stir-craziness was to be expected. In the good old days they would have gone to the mattresses, but it was unthinkable in his condition that he allow himself to be lead out into the world as helpless as a babe in arms. It had been so long since he had heard the Sicilian dialect that it sounded alien to him, a foreign language to a mind that had become accustomed to even thinking in English. He found he had to concentrate, to scrabble through the museum of his memory, picking through the bones for a forgotten phrase, a word unused for decades. He had expected to be comforted by the familiar, but instead he was unnerved by it. Wrong again. He had been wrong about so much recently. He was slipping. Perhaps it was time to retire, to give it up, to go gracefully back to his villa in the hills above Palermo. And do what? Sit drinking grappa and spitting out olive stones, listening to the reminiscences of a bunch of fucking goatherds?
A burst of coarse language and harsh laughter came from the room next door where the boys were playing cards and drinking red wine. Had he once been like that, been one of them? When? He tried to remember, tried to feel some historic link, some kinship, some common blood, but could not. He was of another country now, another culture, another century even. But they were good men. He knew that. Good, strong men. Fierce and loyal and dependable. Men of the old school, the old way of thinking, where honor was still worth something. They had already proved it by putting down one minor rebellion with reptilian ruthlessness. Things had been better since then, calmer, and he was making at least some progress with the debacle down under. But these were still difficult days.
And there was the Irishman to consider. Who is to say that he might not think that the best way to be safe from the serpent is to draw its teeth, as he himself might have thought in the days of his vigor? He was obviously a capable man and, if he had been held in higher esteem from the beginning, perhaps things might have transpired differently. There would be no more mistakes, and no more underestimation. Only vigilance. And in times like these, these men, these four men of honor from the Mediterranean—family, blood, men whom he had summoned to stand his corner—these were the kind of men you needed around you.
He had shown his teeth, and the other dogs were putting their tails back between their legs. It was getting better, back to normal, back to the Pax Imbroglio. But, caution, ever caution. Something might still happen, and if it did Don Ignacio Imbroglio would be ready.
It was only a question of time. They all knew it. Right from the very first second they had been like two packs of dogs, bristling, sniffing, probing, sizing up, waiting only for the first sign of fear from either side, the first act of overt aggression, to send the fur flying and the blood dripping. They sat at opposite ends of the bar, the one group rowdy and bumptious, drinking heavily, the other silent, still, drinking sparingly. They had arrived from Sydney on the same plane, one group first class, loud and loaded, rolling into Cairns like the supporters of a victorious rugby team, the other economy, filing into the customs hall in silence. They had driven down in separate vehicles, the one group singing, arguing, roistering, stopping frequently at watering holes along the way. The other group had driven directly, speaking in low voices to each other, eating on the move, not stopping.
It was going to happen, for sure, but not yet. Not until they had completed the job at hand: a tacit agreement between two groups of professionals, worlds apart in their attitudes and conduct, but united in their commitment to getting it done.
Stavros was nervous. The Big Blue Billabong Hotel was so out of the way he was lucky if he saw one party of tourists a month, let alone two on the same day, and this mob didn’t look like your average day-trippers. The one crew was missing more parts than a prison workshop, and the other mob must be a delegation from the Asian Trappist society, because they hadn’t said a fucking word to each other since they arrived. Except for one young kid with a ponytail, who looked as if Spock had accidentally beamed him to the wrong planet, this lot had that look about them, that body language, that arrogance that spelled trouble. You could almost hear them ticking.
Something was definitely up. Something bad. He knew it. It had been on the cards since Captain Cook had gone missing. First Bjørn Eggen and Mary Rose, and now this. Stavros paced up and down behind the bar, cleaning the same glasses over and over again, emptying clean ashtrays, keeping an eye on the ancient fowling piece that he kept loaded under the counter. It was only loaded with birdshot, just enough to stin
g the local rowdies up the arse if they got out of hand, but this new mob were not to know that. Things were all right for the moment, and at least they were keeping the register ringing, but he wondered what would happen when the regulars started coming in later.
It had not been difficult for people with A.S.S.’s experience to follow the trail as far as the Big Blue Billabong Hotel. Clerks, car hire receptionists, airline booking agents, credit card employees—all could be persuaded to divulge information one way or another. There were ways. There were always ways, and the people they were looking for were not exactly inconspicuous. Beginning in Sydney Harbor, using Norm’s information as a starting point, they had spread out through the city, lifting stones, greasing palms, peeking through keyholes and into closets, speaking to doormen, taxi cab companies, and maîtres d'hôtel until they had built up a fairly accurate picture of what had happened.
Bopping around Sydney peddling MGJ Monsoon had left a trail that might as well have been fluorescent pink footprints, and they had correctly assumed that he would not attempt to make the trip to Cairns by commercial airline and so were able to find the pilot whose plane he had chartered. Based on what they had learned from the Don about Crispin they guessed, again correctly, that he would be ready for a bit of pampering after the rigors of the sea voyage and so were able to place him at the InterContinental. Picking up the flight details had been a piece of cake. The trail had gone a bit cold at Cairns until they had learned from the pilot of Monsoon’s charter plane that he had left the airport by taxi, and returned with a brand new Combi, that was not rented, to collect his cargo.
As an experienced pilot himself Dugong had been able bullshit his way into the pilot’s good graces, and over a couple of cold ones at the local flying club the pilot revealed that a mate of his had recently flown a right weird-looking mob up to Blue Billabong, in the back of beyond. The dealership where Monsoon bought his Combi had not been too difficult to find, and a mechanic had helpfully told them that he had been asked for directions to a place called Blue Billabong. Since—apart from a few tin roof shacks, a gas station, a general store, and a school—the Big Blue Billabong Hotel was more or less the town of Blue Billabong, it was the end of the line.
The four Vietnamese, sent by Long Suc to hold up his end of the deal, had waited in a cheap hotel by the docks for A.S.S. to conduct their detective work and had then joined them on the trip up to Cairns. Neither party knew for sure, but each was fairly certain that they had been given conflicting instructions from their respective employers as to what to do with the fugitives when they were apprehended.
The agreement between Long Suc and the Don was fairly straightforward and reasonable. For example, they had agreed that if either only the money or only the drugs were located, each would be returned to its respective owner. If both were found, the deal was to proceed as originally planned. On the point of what to do with the refugees, the situation was similarly cordial and uncomplicated. Long Suc had no idea who Asia and Crispin were, and therefore exercised no claim to or interest in them, and the Don himself merely wanted them scratched off as one wishes to scratch off a scab that itches. Likewise, the general had no interest in the fate of Mary Rose, whereas the Don had been quite specific in his request that she be returned to the USA in order to be debriefed on the failure of her mission, not to mention de-eared, de-fingered, disemboweled, and decapitated.
The Don had conceded that the general’s reason for wanting revenge against Monsoon should take precedence over his own, as all he had done to the Don was cost him ten million dollars and ten million dollars was replaceable, whereas new feet were difficult to come by. Plus, Monsoon had made off with the drugs.
The general similarly agreed that the Don had a prior claim to Baby Joe, because although he had killed lots of his men, whereas he had only shot a few of the Don’s, the general had a lot more men, so proportionally it was about even, plus the money he had absconded with was technically still the Don’s. Of course, no one knew at the time that, except for one, the Don’s men had actually been killed by each other, a redneck hunting party, a small furry dog, an old lady, and an elephant. As a professional courtesy, the Don had graciously conceded that his cousin Scungulo had been the victim of some overly zealous bodyguarding practices.
These were, however, merely the terms formally agreed upon between the Don and the general during their protracted telephone negotiations. Each man’s private opinion, and therefore the instruction he had given to his respective agents, was quite different. There was, for example, the complicated question of ownership. Since the object of the exercise had been to exchange the money for the drugs, according to the general’s thinking, the money had actually been his at the time of the ambush, and therefore he was perfectly entitled to suspend Baby Joe from barbed wire threaded through his earlobes and have an spectacled cobra and a starving mongoose surgically implanted into his large intestine. It would naturally follow that, if only the money were found, it would belong to him, and the loss of the drugs, which the Don had tacitly purchased, would be, although unfortunate, the Don’s problem. Unless of course only the drugs were located, in which case they would belong to him, as the original owner, and the loss of the cash would be, regrettably, the Don’s problem.
The Don’s thinking on the subject was remarkably similar in that it was an almost perfect mirror image of the general’s. Similarly, the Don privately concluded that the drugs had actually belonged to him when the shooting started, and that therefore he would be perfectly within his rights to insert an industrial carpet steamer into Monsoon’s anus. Furthermore—and to end the argument once and for all—revenge was a Sicilian specialty, not to mention a sacred duty, and in cases of conflicting interest a Sicilian’s claim takes precedence in all situations pertaining to vengeance. He had therefore given instruction that the Vietnamese should be persuaded to hand over custody of all captives. The general had issued similar orders, which was naturally guaranteed to result in the monumental clusterfuck that Stavros was anticipating as he kept a concerned eye on his guests while the regulars started to file in.
Stavros operated a strict policy concerning the divulgence of information. He absolutely and positively refused to divulge any information to one-eyed Egyptians. Which is why, when Magnoon Piastre was ordering another round and casually said, “Listen. We’re looking for some friends of ours who are supposed to be in the area,” and described the parties in question, Stavros replied, “Nah, mate, sorry. We ain’t seen no strangers ’ere in weeks. Don’t get many visitors way out ’ere. You blokes on ’oliday?”
“Yeah. Sightseeing. Looking at all the kangaroos. Have you got any rooms?”
“Nah, mate. Sorry. We’re full. This is our busiest time of year. End of the shearin season. Place’ll be packed to the rafters with shearers, fresh in from the stations. Be right lively then.”
“Shame. Where’s the next nearest hotel?”
“That’ll be Numbat Flats. Just down the road.”
“How far?”
“Ah, only three ’undred miles. Ye’ll do ’er in six hours easy, mate.”
Magnoon nodded, gathered up the drinks, and carried them back to the table.
“What did he say?” Dugong asked.
“He says they’re not here. He’s lying.”
“’Ow can you know?” Gaspart said.
“He’s Greek.”
“Ah. Ça va,” Gaspart said, nodding sagely.
“He knows something. Plus, he said there aren’t any rooms, but there’s nobody in this shitbox, you can tell.”
“So what’s the plan?” Curtains said.
“There are no vehicles outside,” Vladimir said.
“Right, and we ’ave not pass zem on ze way. Zey ’ave eizer already left, are still ’ere someplace, or are in front of us.”
“Well, we know they flew here, so they can’t be far away,” said Magnoon.
“I say we stake the place out for a coupla days,” said Dugong, “and send
the slopes ahead to see if they find anything.”
“But what if they find them, and we’re not there?” Vladimir said.
“Yeah, good point. You’re right. We need to keep an eye on the dink fuckheads. Okay. How about we camp out for a day or two, back in the bush? Do a recce, get the lay of the land. Watch the road both ways, see if they show. Maybe one of us can scout up ahead.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Magnoon offered. “Why don’t I pull this fucking Greek’s teeth out until he tells us?”
“Non. Bettair we wait. We pretend to leave, and zen camp in ze forêt. Zat way ’e will sink we ’ave gone. We can watch ze ’otel, in case ’e tries to send a message, or warn zem, non? I cut ze wire, a few miles down the track.”
“One thing,” said Vladimir. “A place like this might have a radio.”
“Right again,” said Dugong. “Someone find out. If so, we can tune ours in to the same wavelength. I’ll go tell the chief zip what the plan is.”
“When do we move out?” Magnoon asked.
“When we’ve had a few more drinks, you fucking raghead cyclops,” said Dugong, moving off with a grin.
The shadow of the Cessna flitted across the tops of the trees and advanced across the red surface of the road like a crucifix in a horror movie. Except for Crispin, whose eyes were firmly closed, everybody stared intently at the earth rolling by underneath. The thermals rising from the baking earth pummeled the small plane, tossing it, dropping it with stomach-churning swoops and then catching it again with neck-jarring jerks. They were into their second day of searching and had been aloft since dawn following the roads, calculating the maximum distance the Combi could have traveled. They had eliminated the main road yesterday and were following a minor road south, adjusting their distance calculations to accommodate the condition of the road. They were tired and worried and, in Crispin’s case, scared shitless.
Machine Gun Jelly (Big Bamboo Book 1) Page 40